


Bruised knuckles, bloodied hands

by linndechir



Category: Mob City
Genre: Hand Kink, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't take a genius to figure out what kind of work Sid Rothman does for Benny Siegel. After all the violence and death Ned has seen in the war, someone like Sid should probably disgust him, but instead Sid, with his vicious little smiles and his rough hands that can kill so easily, intrigues him more than even Ben himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised knuckles, bloodied hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written for entrprise in the Mob City Exchange on tumblr. The prompt was: "Sid/Ned. Danger kink. Sid’s killed a lot of people. Ned knows it’s disgusting but he gets off knowing that those hands, that have strangled people and pulled triggers, are the same hands fingering him and holding him down in place as Sid fucks him."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what kind of work Sid Rothman does for Benny Siegel. For all that Sid is at least half a head smaller than most men around him, he exudes an unmistakeable aura of danger. It's less the way people talk about him, hushed voices sometimes, loud bragging at others, and more the way they _move_ around him. The way men twice his size step aside when he walks in, the way crowds part for him even though one might easily mistake him for a rather unremarkable little man at first glance. The way he himself moves, with the lazy grace of a panther that knows it won't need more than a second to rip out a man's throat. 

It's less noticeable when he's around Ben, simply because it's hard to pay attention to anyone else when Ben Siegel is in the room. There's something softer around Sid's edges in Ben's presence, angling himself toward him, always ready to jump in when he's needed, but otherwise perfectly content to disappear behind him. But even then it would have taken Ned about two glances to guess what Sid does, if he hadn't already heard about Sid Rothman back in New York. The first time he sees him, Sid strolls into the Clover like he owns it, puts his hand on Ben's shoulder as if to show off his bruised knuckles, leans down with a vicious smirk playing around his lips and whispers a few words into Ben's ear. Ben smiles like a satisfied cat, handsome still, but there's something far more chilling about it than about the smiles Ned had seen from him until then. 

The longer Ned is around, the deeper he gets into Ben's inner circle, the more he realises that Sid Rothman might well be the most dangerous man in Los Angeles. Sure, Ben has a violent temper and Ned would never be dumb enough to cross him – even if he wanted to, and he doesn't, he likes Ben and he likes working for him – but Ben is impulsive and moody and wild, almost child-like in his rage. Sid is all cold calculation, and at the same time he seems to kill with relish. Not the sick passion of a murderer who gets his kicks from the blood on his hands, but the bone-deep satisfaction of a job well done. For all that he's every bit as violent as Ben – and Ned has heard the stories, about brass knuckles on hard fists beating men to death, about strong fingers squeezing down on throats or triggers – there's something almost beautiful about it with Sid.

And that's the whole problem, really. Because under any other circumstances Sid would hardly be the kind of man Ned would be even remotely interested in. He likes them taller, broad in the shoulders, classically handsome. He's had more than one late night fantasy about Ben, but Sid? Sid is an inch smaller than Ned, and he looks downright skinny next to Ben's bulk. And yet more and more often it's not Ben that Ned finds himself looking at, but Sid. He smirks like a shark who's tasted blood, basks in the uneasy glances people throw in his direction, doesn't even bother to hide what he is. There's something appealing about that, too. 

His fascination only gets worse when he gradually realises just how smart Sid is, how observant. He scolds himself for half expecting him to be a mindless thug – no man without smarts would have gotten away with a fraction of the things Sid Rothman has been suspected of, let alone those he's actually done. But Sid is far more cunning than Ben, his mind as sharp as the knife he used to cut the last rat's throat, or so Ned heard – it had to be done quietly, so guns were not an option, and he hates how much he wishes he'd seen that. Where Ben had been oblivious to the way Ned's gaze occasionally strayed to his broad hands or his lips wrapped around a cigar, Sid doesn't miss even the smallest glances, no matter how subtle. He meets Ned's eyes every time, intrigued at first, but more and more often simply amused. Like a man watching a pet, waiting to see what it will do next.

Knowing that Sid has without any doubt killed far more men over the course of his life than Ned has during the war only adds to the thrill when Sid's gaze lingers longer and longer every time, when his eyes narrow almost threateningly as he watches Ned smoke, and Ned knows he should look away, but instead he simply takes deeper drags from his cigarette, blows the smoke out lovingly while baring is throat at Sid like a damn invitation, followed up with a smirk of his own when he sees Sid's jaw tighten, teeth threatening to break the toothpick stuck between them.

It's a game they play for weeks, of more or less subtle glances and smirks, of sharp comments that are only half as antagonistic as they seem, and every time Ben urges Sid to be nicer to his favourite new lawyer, Sid only laughs that throaty little laugh of his, and all Ned can do is wonder if Sid ever laughs like that when his hands have just snuffed out another life, or if killing alone isn't even source enough of a little amusement for him. 

It should disgust him, really. The war should have ruined whatever taste for violence he may once have had. He's seen too many men die bloody, unnecessary deaths to find anything noble or beautiful in it, and he means it every time he preaches caution and restraint to Ben, every time he tries to find a peaceful solution to a problem. He doesn't _want_ anyone to die unless it's absolutely necessary, and there are days when it grates on him to see how easily men like Ben and Sid resort to violence to resolve situations that a few words and bribes might have rectified just as easily. But however much both his head and his heart protest, a visceral, primal part of him still shivers every time he sees Sid shift to reveal the gun under his jacket, every time he watches Sid's hands perform even the most innocuous task, preparing his tea or adjusting his cufflinks, often with a gentle care that belies what they're capable of.

They're sitting in one of Ben's houses one evening, just Ned and Ben, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey and chatting about nothing of real concern because they both know that Ben's mind is on something else, that his thoughts are with Sid and what he sent Sid to do earlier that day. Ned tries his best not to think about it. He'd agreed that this was one case where violence was indeed unavoidable, but there's no need for him to indulge in his sick little obsession by dwelling on where Sid Rothman is right now.

It's past nightfall by the time Sid gets back. The scene's like an echo of their first meeting, and Ned finds it odd how comforting it has become to know that Sid is always there to pick up the pieces, to fix any mess that cannot be fixed another way. And after all, they both have the same job, with different methods for different situations. 

“It's done,” he says, sits down next to Ben, just a bit too close, but that doesn't surprise Ned anymore either. Sid always turns his whole body towards Ben, and Ben moves his arm on the backrest to accommodate him. There's an eager gleam in his eyes.

“You didn't go easy on him?”

“Made it hurt, like you asked,” Sid says and smiles. Less about the pain he inflicted, it seems, more about the hungry smile that spreads on Ben's face. Ned has no doubt that Sid _enjoys_ killing, but it's not the reason he does it. He does it because Ben needs it done.

“I should have just taken care of that bastard myself,” Ben still grumbles a moment later. Ned watches Sid fold his hands in his lap, eyes mapping out the old bruises from a fight earlier that week, but no new scratches. He wonders what exactly Sid did to the man. Trying to steal from Ben Siegel never ends well for anyone.

“We couldn't have risked that,” he says to distract himself, and Ben nods reluctantly.

“Yeah, I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it.” He sighs, pats Sid on the shoulder. He doesn't thank him, doesn't need to. “I need another drink and a girl after this damn mess. You coming?”

He gets up and glances at both of them, but Sid's eyes stray to Ned's instead, hold his gaze for a moment too long before he looks up at Ben.

“I'll use your shower first, if you don't mind. I'll join you later at the Clover.”

Ben nods and looks at Ned, and Ned knows he should just go with Ben now, get out of here before he does something stupid, or, more likely, before Sid does something that might well end with Ned in a ditch somewhere in Nevada. No matter how much he wants those hands, they're not worth dying for. He licks his lips, puts the cigar between them for another drag. He feels his heart racing in his chest, but his hands are steady.

“If it's all right with you, Ben, I'll finish my cigar and head home,” he says smoothly. “It's been a long day.”

“Sure, make yourselves at home,” Ben says and shakes his head. “You two really need to enjoy yourselves more often, you know that?”

Sid laughs that laugh that makes Ned's throat feel dry, and Ned tries to stay relaxed until Ben is gone. Hears the front door fall shut with a bang, swallows to clear his throat. Sid is still smirking, looking at Ned like he's wondering if he should play with him a little or just eat him alive.

“What do you want, Sid?” Ned asks after a tense minute of silence. Sid doesn't look like he needs a shower. His suit is clean, if a bit rumpled, and he must have washed his hands before coming here, scrubbed them clean judging by the slightly reddened hue of his skin. Only his hair is a bit out of place, like it got messed up and he simply combed it back with his fingers. 

Sid gets up from the couch, rolls his shoulders back a little; they're broad enough when he's not sitting next to Ben, a comparison that wouldn't be flattering for any man, and Ned knows there has to be more strength in that wiry body than the eye can see. He doesn't move when Sid steps closer, holds his gaze and keeps smoking his cigar. He's not entirely sure if Sid is moving so slowly or if his own perception is skewed, but it seems like a terribly long wait until Sid's fingertips touch his chin, a fleeting caress before their grasp tightens and he forces Ned's chin upwards. His other hand takes the cigar from Ned's lips to put it carefully down on the ashtray. Ned takes a deep breath, and Sid's hands smell deceptively clean, of nothing but soap. There's not even a speck of dirt under his fingernails. Ned turns his head aside to escape Sid's grip, but he doesn't bother to yank himself away when Sid doesn't let go.

“What do you think you're doing?” he asks calmly, managing to sound downright indifferent. Like this is just another one of Sid's almost childish jibes, nothing worth raising an eyebrow over.

Sid leans down until their eyes are almost level, the look on is face full of intent instead of mere playfulness, and he breathes in deeply like a predator sniffing its prey. 

“You smell like Ben,” he says, and the thumb on Ned's chin slides up until it touches the crooked side of Ned's mouth.

“It's the cigars,” and this time Ned does pull away abruptly, even gets up from where he's sitting because Sid is just too damn close, but just as he tries to put a few steps between them Sid's fingers curl around his wrist and hold him back. Somehow Ned had expected Sid's hands to feel cold, but they're pleasantly warm, and their grip is so strong that Ned doubts he could break free without seriously injuring one or both of them. He realises suddenly that Sid has never actually touched him before this night, a strange thought, considering that the way Sid has been looking at him for weeks made him feel like Sid has already had him in every possible way.

Sid's close enough that Ned can hear him breathe, quietly, but a bit too quickly, his breath hot on Ned's neck. His first instinct is a smooth lie, as always, a slight smile and an amicable “whatever you think this is, Sid, it's not”, firm denial with just a hint of outrage, but at this point he's learnt that lying to Sid Rothman is almost as foolish as stealing from Ben Siegel. Sid reads people as easily as Ned himself, and Ned has let this go on for far too long to claim ignorance now. So he doesn't snarl at Sid when Sid's other hand finds its way back to his face, brushing over his cheek this time, but he flinches away slightly, gives Sid a look of almost condescending disbelief.

“Here, Sid? Are you out of your mind? What if Ben comes back?” He keeps his voice even, simply pointing out the problems of Sid's plan like he'd do in any other situation, and he likes to think that he masks his excitement at that thought rather well – as if he hadn't imagined before what it would feel like to be caught between Sid's and Ben's bodies, to have both their hands on his skin, Sid whispering filth into his ear while Ben would fuck him. He cuts that line of thought short, focuses instead on the burn of Sid's hand on his wrist. This is bad enough as it is.

“Don't worry, lawyer boy,” Sid drawls in that deep voice Ned feels in his bones almost as much as he hears it. Another deep breath, and this time Sid's nose brushes against Ned's jawline. Ned would be embarrassed by how much that minuscule touch affects him, but his head is spinning and it's been far, far too long since anyone has touched him like this, setting every nerve ending on fire. “I wasn't going to fuck you right here.”

Ned lets out a short laugh, but it sounds more nervous than dismissive. He tries to pull his hand free, tentatively, but his movement is barely more than a light twitch in Sid's grip. 

“What makes you think I'll let you fuck me?” He meets Sid's eyes like he's unafraid, and in a way he almost is, nervous, but far from as terrified as he should be. He doesn't know if it's his general ability to keep a cool head or if he's just too distracted by pure want to dwell on the consequences. Sid's fingertips wander from his cheek to his throat, a casual, gentle touch, and Ned wishes he knew if Sid ever strangles people or if he prefers guns and his fists. It's such an intimate way of killing, and Ned wonders what goes on in Sid's head when he takes a life, if he'd want that kind of intimacy or if he's far more detached about it. 

“The fact that you're still here,” Sid replies simply. His voice is matter-of-fact, and there's almost a certain note of respect in it, as if Sid acknowledged that Ned would be quite capable of getting away from him if he wanted to. Ned cocks his head back, his neck caught between Sid's fingers on one side, his lips on the other as Sid shifts just enough to breathe a kiss onto Ned's skin. A soft touch, but somehow it doesn't feel tender, only hungry. Ned wants nothing more than to feel Sid's teeth sink into the spot his lips just kissed, but he can't give in, not just yet.

He raises his free hand to cover Sid's wrist, his grip less hard than Sid's own, but still firm. Waits until Sid looks up again before he says, “Ben can't know about this.”

For all his guilty little fantasies he knows Ben Siegel well enough to be sure that his boss would not actually smile and fuck his mouth and pat him on the back afterwards if he knew about Ned's preferences, but more likely beat him to a bloody pulp and kick him out of LA, and that's if Ned got lucky. He likes it here far too much to let Sid ruin everything.

Sid smiles his shark smile.

“I don't lie to Ben,” he says, an unchangeable fact. “But I can keep a secret as long as he doesn't ask me.”

Ned grimaces a little, but it's good enough – not like Ben would have any reason to _ask_ Sid the next day if he happened to fuck his lawyer the night before. And to his surprise he finds that he believes Sid. The man may be a petty bastard sometimes, jealously guarding his place by Ben's side and antagonising Ned for no good reason, but above all else he likes to make life simpler for Ben. It wouldn't be like him to cause problems just because he didn't particularly like Ned. Ned lets out a slow breath, feels like he's relaxing for the first time since Ben left the house, and as if he'd been waiting for Ned to let his guard down Sid tightens his grip on Ned's throat, presses down just enough to draw a startled gasp from Ned's lips. 

Sid shoves him backwards into the corridor, manhandling him easily as if Ned wasn't taller than him, and Ned has a feeling that even if he put up resistance Sid would find a way around it. Sid knows his way around Ben's house, manoeuvres them past two doors before opening the third one and pushing Ned inside, kicks it shut behind himself. It's a smaller living room, cosy and comfortable, with a large couch that makes it easy enough to imagine what Ben might usually use the room for. Ben, or Sid himself maybe, as often as he is at Ben's place, as often as Sid and Ben sometimes leave the Clover together with two or three girls.

If Sid was all calm control until now, he quickly loses his restraint behind closed doors, hands on Ned's body like he wants to bury them inside him, teeth biting down so hard on the side of Ned's neck that he's almost surprised they don't draw blood. There's still a beautiful efficiency about Sid's every movement, hard fingers nimbly undoing buttons before they scrape over Ned's skin, and Ned finds himself half undressed mere moments after they entered the room. Sid doesn't kiss him, not on the lips, his own mouth far more interested in Ned's throat, nipping and biting and sucking like he can't wait to tear it out with his bare teeth and is just savouring the treat until then, and Ned can't bring himself to be embarrassed about the groan those bites force from his throat. It's more passionate than he would have imagined, but just as rough as he'd hoped, the way Sid forces him towards the broad couch, and Ned would fight back just to make Sid grab him harder, but there's no real need for that. When Ned just raises his hands to Sid's shoulders to pull him closer Sid already grabs his wrists, twists them with just the right amount of force to hurt without leaving any damage, and damn if there isn't more artistry in that than even in all those murders Sid has gotten away with.

The breath is knocked out of his lungs as Sid bends him over the back of the couch, face down. Ned feels goosebumps forming on his back and his ass, and a shiver crawls over him from the cold air and the light scratch of Sid's suit fabric against his bared skin. Sid holds Ned's wrist in an iron grip behind his back, with just one hand while the other traces teasing patterns over Ned's hip, his movements suddenly slow and calm again, like he's deliberating what to do next. Ned shifts a little, the pressure of the couch's backrest not entirely pleasant against his hard cock.

“What did you do to him?” he asks, breathlessly, quite sure he won't be able to form a coherent sentence anymore soon. He turns his head to glance back up at Sid, who's still perfectly dressed.

“To whom?”

“Your knuckles don't look like you just beat someone to death,” Ned says, and Sid laughs.

“You should know, the way you've been staring at my hands.” He digs his fingertips into Ned's flesh, just near his hipbone. His fingernails are too short to scratch the soft skin, but even so the touch hurts, hopefully enough to leave marks. He leans down until his lips almost touch Ned's ear, whispers softly, “I did beat him, I just used an iron pipe. Can't play the violin with sprained fingers.”

Ned whimpers and bucks against the hand on his hip, desperate to feel _more_ of those hands. He knows it's sick, that those words should have killed his hard-on instantly, and when Sid suddenly lets go of him he feels a wave of disgust at himself hitting him, so strong that he might have lost his balance if he hadn't been bent over already. He still groans in protest and follows Sid with his eyes. Sid shrugs out of his suit jacket and takes off his tie, rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to reveal strong forearms, thicker than Ned had expected, all wiry muscle. It's easy enough to imagine an iron pipe in his broad hands, just as easy as it is to imagine a violin in them – another thing Ned would love to see, ever since he heard Ben mention that Sid still plays. He's sure that Sid must be good at it, simply because Sid is not the kind of man who'd do things badly.

Sid turns away for a minute, apparently quite confident that Ned won't budge, to start rummaging through the wooden cabinet by the couch, and he must have really screwed people in here before because he produces a small tube of lubricant from the cabinet, smirks at the surprised look on Ned's face. When he steps closer again, he splays his palm over the small of Ned's back, leans down with a mocking smirk.

“Ben would mind if I broke his favourite lawyer boy,” he says by way of explanation, like that's the only reason he would even bother not to fuck him bloody, and it probably is. Ned can't bring himself to mind, his eyes fluttering shut when slick fingers tease him for a moment before pushing into him, still far too roughly for comfort. It's hard to cling to any feelings of shame when he's so overwhelmed by Sid's every touch, and really, if he was already messed up enough that he liked to get fucked, there wasn't really much of a reason to be ashamed of _how_ he liked it. 

Sid's fingers are strong, much stronger than his own when he does this, or maybe the angle is just better this way. It makes Ned wish Sid would keep going for longer, but he only slicks him up enough to ease the way a little. Ned can't stay quiet when Sid finally thrusts into him, and certainly not once Sid's hand twists Ned's wrists behind his back again, holding him down and just where he wants him. The helplessness of his position should make him panic, _would_ make him in panic in any other situation, but here and now he relishes it as much as the sharp pain and the overwhelming need for more. It drives the shame and the guilt right out of his head, not just for being what he is, but also for wanting Sid Rothman of all people, for wanting those hands not merely despite what they've done, but because of it, and so he closes his eyes and takes whatever Sid gives him, barely aware of how his moans slowly turn into screams in his throat. He comes all over the couch before Sid does, shivering through his afterglow as Sid keeps thrusting into him, and he feels Sid come more than he hears him, in the way Sid's hand tightens on his wrists so much Ned almost fears he'll break them, the way he goes still and lets out a slow, deep sigh, all heavy satisfaction. He stays inside him for just a few moments after that, just long enough for Ned to get somewhat uncomfortable until Sid withdraws, letting go of him at the same time, and his fingers only ghost briefly over the mess he's made of Ned.

It's not unexpected, that Sid is not one to stay close once he's had what he wanted, but Ned still flinches at the loss of contact, suddenly feeling far more naked and exposed than he had before. A knot is forming in his stomach, repressed concerns speaking up again now that he's not thinking with his cock anymore, but the fist he half expects to smash his face – no matter what Sid said about not breaking something that was Ben's – doesn't come. Sid cleans up best he can and tucks himself in, and except for the sweaty sheen on his forehead and the wet gleam on his right hand, he doesn't look much more dishevelled than he might after a kill.

The look he gives Ned when Ned straightens up is more bemused than disgusted, and the smirk that keeps lingering at the corner of his mouth is far less vicious than Ned has seen at other times. Maybe he should be grateful that it was Sid who wanted him and not Ben. Ned had worked hard to win Ben's trust and affection and he would have lost it so easily with this, while Sid simply doesn't seem to like Ned enough to care whether Ned likes men, beyond what that means for Sid's own pleasure.

Ned is tongue-tied, a rare occurrence for him, or maybe he simply doesn't trust his throat yet to make any sound that even resembles civilised speech, and he breathes a sigh of relief when Sid doesn't stop him on his way out the door, a hasty retreat to the next bathroom to clean himself up and bring his clothes in order. He's almost surprised that Sid didn't rip anything in his hurry, didn't even tear off a single button. Ned smokes a quick cigarette, too fast to enjoy it really, but it calms his nerves and he almost looks presentable again by the time he steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later.

He finds Sid back in the main living room, still in shirt sleeves, sprawling comfortably on the couch and sucking on Ned's cigar. Ned has only seen him smoke once or twice, and cigarettes then, he usually refuses the cigars Ben offers him, but he seems to be enjoying this one well enough. Ned snorts a little. Sid is one hell of an arrogant bastard, but he assumes that's a side effect of being feared by just about everyone who knows him, and anyway Ned is hardly one to throw stones in that regard.

Ned pours himself another glass of whiskey, forces himself to drink it slowly rather than gulping it down like he's still on the verge of panic. He's starting to feel oddly calm. It reminds him of the war, of how sometimes, once he'd made the first step and there was no turning back, he felt perfectly collected even as bombs started falling around them, because at least they'd stopped waiting for something to happen.

After a minute or two Sid put the cigar back down on the ashtray, as if he'd lost interest in it, and looked up at Ned.

“For someone who always tries to talk Ben out of letting me do my job, you sure like to hear about it.” 

Ned clears his throat, and he's pleased that his voice sounds almost normal again.

“I can appreciate the craftsmanship of what you do without thinking it's always necessary to use it,” he says, and Sid scoffs like he knows it's bullshit, but they both know that's really beside the point.

“I would have thought you'd be far more afraid to go through with this,” Sid says. He sits up and straightens his back with an audible crack. 

“Why, because you kill people?” Ned replies casually, and he's quite impressed with himself that he hid his fear well enough for Sid to miss it, or at least to overlook it beneath Ned's far more obvious arousal. “I know you won't kill me, so what does it matter?”

There's something even more languid than usual about the way Sid moves now when he gets up and steps closer, back into Ned's personal space, but there's no real threat in his eyes, not even annoyance. 

“Isn't Ben waiting for you?” Ned asks before Sid can reply, and Sid actually laughs at that. Gives him a brief look that seems almost impressed before his face turns as unreadable again as it usually is.

“He is,” Sid simply agrees, and if Ned had known how much more agreeable Sid would be after this, he might have tried to get him alone far earlier. “There's a spare key by the coat rack; lock up when you leave.” He steps back, and Ned gets a last whiff of Sid's aftershave and Ben's cigars; his skin tingles pleasantly when it fills his nostrils, and he wishes Sid had touched him again, but something tells him tonight wouldn't be the last time Sid's hands would hold him down to get what they wanted. 

“Will do,” Ned says, and he sits down himself while Sid turns to leave. Sid stops again by the door, half turns and says, “Good night, Stax.”

He's put on his hat and stepped outside a moment later, and it takes Ned a few seconds to realise it's the first time Sid has ever bothered with common niceties towards him. He smirks a little to himself as he picks up his cigar and lights it again, enjoying the thought that he can taste Sid's lips on it, although he knows that he probably couldn't even if he knew what Sid's lips tasted like. He wonders if Sid was just in a generous mood after getting what they both had been dancing around for weeks, or if bending Ned over had, against all odds, actually made him respect Ned more than before. He doesn't know any more than he knows what the hell goes on in Sid's head when he kills someone or when he smirks to himself while sitting by Ben's side, because half the time Sid looks and behaves like he's privy to some secret joke that nobody else knows about.

Ned finds that he doesn't really mind, just as long as Sid won't give him any trouble for what they did tonight. Sid being what he was, with all his odd quirks and his finely honed, but controlled tendency towards violence, had attracted Ned in the first place. Whatever game Sid thought he was playing, Ned doubted he'd get bored of it any time soon.


End file.
